


The Cottage, His Darling

by Dragonsquill (dragonsquill)



Series: The Cottage, the Husbands [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Genderfluid Character, Love, M/M, sartorial flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 15:38:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19833247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/pseuds/Dragonsquill
Summary: Self Indulgent South Downs Fluff the Fourth: Crowley has been feeling tetchy and not quite right in his skin lately.  Aziraphale has an inkling why, and decides to gently assist.





	The Cottage, His Darling

**Author's Note:**

> Crowley's tailor probably thinks they're the same person in disguise, because she never sees both of them in the same place at once.
> 
> If y'all have any indulgent South Downs fluff ideas, do let me know.

Aziraphale, even as an unemployed angel, could still sense the emotions of others. After all, his angelic abilities were still intact, and his empathy wasn’t even considered a miracle so much as a natural sense. There’d been a time, as humanity grew and multiplied, that he’d been overwhelmed by all their myriad of feelings pressing in on him; indeed, he still rarely chose to put himself into long-term crowded situations. He’d learned to block it out, control what he wanted to “hear,” and that had made life much easier. The only people he’d never been able to completely tune out had been his fellow angels (so shocking at the end, their anger, their thirst for war, where once there had been love) and Crowley. 

Given his beloved’s tendency to attempt to be cool, calm, and collected at all times, Aziraphale didn’t consider it cheating to peek beneath the surface. And, as Crowley occasionally (most of the time) managed to fool himself into thinking he was as cooly evil and calm as he claimed, this meant that often as not Aziraphale knew more about what his demon was feeling that Crowley did himself. Therefore, it was Aziraphale who first noticed that Crowley was feeling antsy in his skin one random Tuesday as they walked beside the sea. 

He didn’t mention it. One didn’t; it was a very personal thing, and by all rights it should be Crowley who decided what to do about it. What Aziraphale did do was nip by Crowley’s tailor in London and pick up a few items that he took home and hung neatly on Crowley’s side of the wardrobe. 

Crowley usually miracled his clothes, save the few staples he had personally tailored, but Aziraphale still felt the happy little flurry of warmth when he saw the items Crowley had added to his wardrobe, and he wanted to try and return the favor. He didn’t have Crowley’s eye for modern style, but of course Crowley’s tailor did. The woman was a mad genius, or so Crowley claimed; Aziraphale didn’t pretend to understand her stylistic choices, but he knew they appealed to Crowley, and that was all that mattered.

(Crowley had no idea they had met, believing she would be a little _too much_ for Aziraphale [hence not yet having taken Aziraphale to get some new trousers], and, if he had known, would have been horrified to learn that Aziraphale introduced himself while wearing his old standby outfit and carrying a small basket of loose teas. He would have been further astonished to find out that the way to his tailor’s tattooed, pierced, black-loving heart happened to be a small basket of loose teas, and she was very fond of “Anthony’s angel” even if he refused to take any of her sought after and very expensive fashion advice. )

Two mornings after making his additions to Crowley’s rarely opened wardrobe, Aziraphale was pulled from his morning reading by a discontented grumbling from the covers curled up on the other side of the bed.

“Good morning, dear,” he said softly, because too much enthusiasm as Crowley was waking up could lead to the most tetchy of snakey hisses, and it did hurt his feelings a _bit_ to be snarled at. 

“Nggk,” Crowley muttered, managing to curl all of his human limbs into a petulant ball. 

Aziraphale gave his hair a fond pet. “Why don’t you take a shower? Or a bath? I’ll have some lovely tea waiting, just as you like it.”

The syllabic noise was more accommodating this time. “Bath? I can start the water for you?” A negative sound. Crowley did generally prefer showers. “Shall I assist you in getting out of bed, or will you wait a while longer?” This question was asked with a smirk that made yellow eyes pop out from the sheets and give him a sleepy glare, followed by:

“…Yes.”

So Aziraphale gently unwrapped his demon and nudged him to his feet, all yawning inches and silk pajamas and disastrous hair. The angel loved morning Crowley with a tenderness that _ached,_ because it was only after everything, when they became _this,_ that he was allowed to see him in such a vulnerable state. “Off you go,” he said, giving Crowley a nudge forward at the small of his back. Crowley’s “thngzz” was enough like a thank you to make Aziraphale chuckle to himself.

His polite morning demon.

As soon as the door to the bathroom was closed behind Crowley, Aziraphale crossed to the wardrobe and pulled out the new items, laying them out neatly on the miraculously made bed. He gently ran a hand along one piece, smoothing out a couple of tiny wrinkles, before humming a note of satisfaction and bustling off to the kitchen to make tea. 

He was heartened to feel the shift in Crowley as he came out of the shower. Aziraphale tried not to constantly eavesdrop on Crowley’s feelings, but the last few days his darling had felt so terribly awkward and unhappy, and Aziraphale was a little nervous that perhaps he’d gone too far in his attempt to help. But there was a sense of surprise, and then that spicy flavor of love that was intrinsically Crowley's. 

Aziraphale smiled and moved the tea set, with croissants for himself, to their little kitchen table by the windows over Crowley’s incredible garden (envy of everyone in the village, and Crowley’s little bit of evil, spreading jealousy and grumbles among the most dedicated gardeners). 

“Good morning,” came Crowley’s voice, just a touch softer than usual, and then hands were on Aziraphale’s hips and a warm kiss pressed in his curls. “You’ve been in my half of the wardrobe.”

“What’s good for the goose,” Aziraphale said tartly, dressed himself in one of the lovely vest and shirt combinations Crowley had bought him, “is good for the gander.”

Crowley laughed, and Aziraphale knew he’d chosen exactly the right cliché as Crowley came around him to perch on the table (heaven forbid Crowley sit properly in a chair). 

Crowley picked up her teacup and brought it to her lips. Her hair was styled differently-still short, but just a little softer-and the blush of lipstick clung to the side of the cup as she looked almost shyly at Aziraphale. “How did you know?” she asked, trying to sound aggrieved and failing spectacularly. “I didn’t even know yet!”

Aziraphale smiled. He reached out and ran his thumb first along Crowley’s right jaw, then the left, the prickle of a minor angelic miracle dancing in its wake. Crowley could guarantee that her beard not grow when she wanted, but a little insurance never hurt. “You’ve been restless, my darling. I took a chance.”

“Well. Not a bad one,” she eyed him ominously, purely to maintain her (non-existent within these walls) reputation for being difficult about everything, “ _this_ time.” Her glasses were tucked neatly in a pocket included purely for that purpose. “Where did you find it?”

“Your tailor. She said it was just the thing.” Aziraphale glanced over the outfit. Crowley had made adjustments, of course, but the overall look was what Aziraphale had brought home: layers of black cloth wrapped off the shoulder, the “snakeskin” belt, the asymmetrical skirt. She’d decided on shortening the front and wearing exquisitely tailored slacks underneath, and added a kick of heel to her version of shoes. “It does look lovely.”

Crowley scoffed. “Of course it does,” she said airily. “I always do.” Then she leaned forward and kissed his forehead before resting her own there. “Thank you, Angel,” she said softly, and Aziraphale felt his cheeks pink up a little. Crowley, the brat, grinned sharply as she always did when she made him blush.

“Oh hush and drink your tea,” Aziraphale told her. “We’re still going to the sale at the botanical gardens today, I assume?”

Crowley, her good mood bringing out her inner (really, very outer) femme fatale, draped herself artistically across his lap and sipped her tea. How she fit comfortably when he was in a straight backed chair was an ode to her confusion concerning snake vs. human spinal columns. “Yes we are,” she said, pecking a kiss to his cheek. “You owe me a romantic date among the roses.” She reached out, happy and settled in her own skin again, and tempted Aziraphale’s hair into proper curls, humming one of her old lullabies under her breath. 

Aziraphale tipped his head obediently and wrapped a steadying arm around her waist, thoroughly pleased. He had centuries of holding Crowley at a distance to make up for (no matter what Crowley said about understanding), and there was nothing more incandescent in his world than his darling, comfortable and happy and well-loved.

“Wait!” Crowley suddenly said, hands stilling, sharp bones cutting into soft thighs. “What do you mean you got them from _my tailor?!_ ”

**Author's Note:**

> So my job is screwing me over for fun and (no profit, really, just fun), and I am on the warpath. I am posting this fluff as my eff you to my boss.
> 
> Yeah. Yeah. Eff you, Boss. Take this fluff to the face.


End file.
